


Mercy is for suckers

by FancifulRivers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, No Mercy Route mentions, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Past Poisoning, Poisoning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 16:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12369714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: Chara isn't handling being on the surface very well.





	Mercy is for suckers

You know how they feel about you.

They  _say_ they love you. They  _say_ that they're so glad that you're back, that you could somehow be pulled back into existence as a real live human child, not a rotting corpse. You and Asriel, one big happy family.

But that's not true. And it's all your fault.

You're the one who ate the buttercups. You're the one who got Asriel killed. You're the one with the shitty plan that didn't even  _work_.

And you're the one who killed them all, too.

Frisk always protests and says it was them, too, they share the blame, but you know better. You're like poison, like a cancer. They never would have thought of it if it wasn't for you. You're the demon that comes when you call its name, and that certainly hasn't changed now that the barrier is broken and everyone gets their happy ending. Everyone but you. Everyone but the people whose lives you've destroyed by existing.

You know Sans remembers. You don't know how he does, but there's this way he looks at you, and this way he hints around things that makes you squirm with guilt, that makes regret surge up your throat. You don't know how to explain what you did. You don't think there's any point. Why would he care? You're a dirty brother killer. You dusted everyone he ever cared about (everyone  _you_ ever cared about), and it was all for  _nothing_ , no matter how much you thought differently.

You think Asriel remembers. He remembers being Flowey. Sometimes you hear him talking about the smiley trashbag and then he claps a paw over his mouth and looks horrified. Sometimes he cries. You want to call him a crybaby when he does, but you can't make yourself let the words out. Maybe that's a good thing. You don't think he'd understand. Not those times.

Mom and Dad love you, but they don't love each other, and you can't help but blame yourself. If you'd never shoved buttercups down your throat, none of it would have happened. Mom reassures you that it wasn't your fault, but you know she's lying. She just doesn't want you to feel bad. She doesn't want you to find some more buttercups or grab the carving knife from the kitchen drawer. Like she could stop you. Like you don't know what it feels like to breathe in her dust. (The thought makes you rush to the bathroom to be noisily sick. When you come out, your eyes are puffy and red-rimmed and you tell Frisk to leave you the fuck alone when they ask what's wrong. You don't even feel bad when they look hurt.)

Dad makes you tea and tells you that sometimes, things just happen. His own guilt crushes him like a boulder and you want to take it off his shoulders. It's a drop in the ocean of your own regrets. You drove him to those things, that is all your fault, too, and you know it is. You know his dust, too, and sometimes you have to rush out into his garden, dragging in deep breaths of fresh air and trying to pretend that you're okay. Nobody believes it.

Frisk drags you with them to cooking lessons with Undyne and Papyrus. You have a panic attack midway through and come back to Undyne leaning over you, calmly (and loudly) counting backwards from ten and instructing you to breathe. Your face flushes redder than the tomatoes she was chopping as you stammer out a thank you.

"No problem!" She tells you cheerfully and that's that. She doesn't judge you or laugh at you, and you don't understand. You're so  _weak_. Who has a panic attack over tomatoes? But they're so  _red_ and all you can think of is spitting blood into your cupped hands while poison burns, burns, burns down your throat-

It's humiliating when Frisk kneels next to you and wipes away your tears with a napkin.

The next day, you skip school. You know Frisk is going to tell Mom. Asriel might or might not, you can't tell with him anymore sometimes. He's different since his stint as a murderous flower. That's your fault, too, and the guilt stings like acid.

You don't know where you're going, but you find yourself in a park. It's one you haven't been to before and you think that's probably a good thing, because the park is full of yellow flowers and- 

You swallow hard. You would recognize those yellow flowers anywhere.

You're standing in a field of buttercups.

They look so innocuous, but you know they aren't. They're like you, bitter and poisonous, hurting anyone who comes too close. They hurt people and they kill people and you don't notice until it's too late that you've sagged to your knees, your fingers outstretched to rip handfuls of petals from their stems, ready to feel that poison blister and bloody your mouth again-

"kiddo, what the  _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

You're encased in blue and you freeze as you're slowly lifted off the ground and set on the sidewalk by a very angry-looking skeleton.

"I-" You don't know what to say. You don't think there's anything  _to_ say. You've never heard Sans swear like that before.

"those are poisonous," he says, like you don't know, like you don't have  _intimate knowledge_ of this fact, and you start laughing and laughing and laughing, and then you're crying, big, ugly sobs that rip apart your chest. 

"hey-" The blue evaporates and he's there, patting you awkwardly on the shoulder. "no need tibia so torn up about it." The shitty pun surprises a watery laugh from you.

"Why are you here?" You ask instead, annoyed at how raspy your voice is.

"frisk texted me you skipped school," Sans says, lifting his phone out of his pocket for a moment. You scowl. You knew they would tell on you, but why  _him_? "been looking for you awhile. didn't expect to see you here."

"Yes, well," you say, sitting on the gritty sidewalk and wrapping your arms around your knees. "I didn't expect to end up here. You can go away now."

"i don't think i can," he says easily, sitting on the sidewalk next to you, despite your best projections of  _stay away from me_. "not when i caught you about to breakfast on buttercups. not about to leaf you alone."

"I could kill you," you say. You don't know why you say it. It isn't like you have anything sharp on you. It isn't like you want to. You just want him to  _go away_.

"nah," Sans says. 

"I have before," you say quietly, staring at the sidewalk. He pauses, turning to you.

"i know," he says. "do you remember what i said then?"

"You mean how kids like me should be burning in hell?" You quote. You agreed with him then and you agree with him now. You're supposed to be dead and gone, and you don't know why you aren't.

"not that," he dismisses. "do you think even the worst person can change?"

"Well, I agree I'm the worst person anyway," you say carefully, and Sans snorts.

"you aren't, first of all," he tells you. "and secondly, you've changed."

You blink at him. Of all the things you ever expected Sans to say, that is not one of them. You know he tolerates you because of your mom and dad, and because Frisk wants him to, but- this is-

"Did Frisk put you up to this?" bursts out of you before you can snatch the words back. He looks surprised at the suggestion, you think, before shaking his head.

"nah, kid, it's just the truth," he says. "even you can turn over a new leaf, don'tcha think?"

"I...don't know."

"you will," Sans tells you, before getting to his feet and offering you a hand up. "c'mon, let's get you to school. i know a shortcut."

"I hate school," you grumble, but you stand up anyway. You have to wait a minute because your vision goes black for a second (you hate your shitty body so much), but the skeleton just waits patiently, helping you stay upright.

"it'll get better," Sans says. You look over at the buttercups, phantom pain bursting over your tongue.

"Maybe," you acknowledge and take his hand.


End file.
